AUTOUR DU MONDE: Other places, other sites

Expat Blog

People have been telling me to go to Lisbon for 20 years. And for 20 years I have ignored them, instead choosing to visit Europe’s more celebrated capitals. That was a mistake. I knew it the second I sat down at a café terrace in the chic Chiado shopping district on my first day in town. The sidewalks around me were decorated in calçada portuguesa, black basalt and white limestone tiles set into fanciful floral designs that kept my eye entertained as I sipped a bica, an excellent café espresso with just the right amount of froth.

Calçadas portuguesas on Avenida Liberdade.

Of course I had heard of the city’s famous calçadas portuguesas, and also of its azulejos — the colorful glazed tiles that decorate the exterior walls of so many of its buildings — but hearing about something wonderful and seeing it firsthand is an altogether different experience.

Lovely, and slippery.

I was struck by the sheer artistry of the calçadas portuguesas, and also by the apparent eccentricity of military engineer Eusébiuo Furtado, who invented the style in 1842 when he ordered inmates to decorate the courtyard of their prison with the black-and-white tiles. His idea took off and thrived, and soon most of Lisbon’s hilly streets and squares were covered in whimsical mosaic patterns. Perhaps the most amazing thing about the tiles, however, is that they are still intact. So many other capital cities around the globe would have destroyed them in the name of modernity or cost savings, but not Lisbon. Instead, the city has chosen to preserve its ornate sidewalks — despite the steep terrain and the fact that the tiles are very slippery when wet.

The calçadas portuguesas are reason alone to visit Lisbon, but there are so many other sound motives — art, history, gastronomy and hospitality, to name a few. Although the Portuguese capital doesn’t have the mega-museums of London, Madrid or Paris, it does have a host of smaller, quirkier museums that showcase unique and stunning collections that you just won’t find anywhere else. Three of them, the National Museum of Ancient Art, the Gulbenkian Museum and the Tile Museum, are unsung gems that deserve much more international attention than they receive. The Museum of Ancient Art takes the visitor through seven centuries of Portuguese art and exploration; the Gulbenkian displays the magnificent private collection of Armenian oil magnate Calouste Gulbenkian; and the Tile Museum houses glorious azulejos dating back to the 1400s. All three museums are inexpensive and rarely crowded, which adds to their appeal.

Fanciful azulejos on the side of a building.

But if you don’t want to waste glorious weather by staying indoors, the city itself is a museum — and in the best possible way. On a clear-sky day, nothing beats a hike up the winding streets of the historic Alfama district to Castelo de São Jorge, the hilltop citadel that dates from the sixth century and lords over the city, or a ride up the rickety Elevador de Santa Justa, which was built between 1898 and 1901 by Raoul de Mesnier du Ponsard, an apprentice of Gustave Eiffel. The top-heavy, 147-foot contraption looks like something Edward Gorey would have drawn; riding up its handsome, wood-paneled elevator car, I found myself fearing that the aging iron structure might come tumbling down.

The magnificent Elevador de Santa Justa.

But once I reached the skytop platform, the views of the river, the hills and the city’s red-tiled rooftops were so incredible that I was able to face down my anxiety and even peer over the rusty edge to the handsomely tiled street below.

The view from Santa Justa.

The Elevador de Santa Justa is an old-fashioned thrill, and so are the city’s famous streetcars. One would have to be a jaded and grumpy traveler not to enjoy a ride on one of the bright-yellow vintage trolleys. Even the streetcar lines that are crowded with tourists are worth exploring, for as they snake through labyrinthine neighborhoods, just barely squeaking past tiny shops and launderettes, the rider gets a glimpse of the life of the average Lisboner. Taking a trolley away from the city center is even more rewarding; suddenly, the riders are all locals, most female and well past the age of 70. The senhoras hop on board with their grocery bags, exchange neighborhood chitchat and alight a couple of blocks later in front of their homes. It’s the perfect fly-on-the-wall experience.

A typical lane.

Another very local experience is a pilgrimage to Santa Maria de Bélem, the parish suburb just outside the city. Here, the city’s schoolchildren, retirees and international travelers gather to admire the 16th-century Mosteiro dos Jerónimos, built by King Manuel I to give thanks for Vasco da Gama’s successful voyage to India. After exploring the monastery, everyone congregates again at Antiga Confeitaria de Bélem, the 175-year-old pastry shop whose specialty, the pastel de nata, has become the national treat of Portugal.

Pasteis de nata = YUM.

The only problem I had with this pastry is that it is addictive; after my first bite of one of the little tarts, with its flaky exterior and custard interior infused with hints of lemon, cinnamon and vanilla, I wanted only more. My new habit was hard to kick, because everywhere I went, there they were: in humble cafés, chic pastry shops — even my wonderful hotel, As Janelas Verdes, offered them warm each morning. Although no establishment could reach the heights of the original pastéis de Bélem, my hotel came close.

Which brings me to another unsung Lisbon treasure: its gastronomy. Portuguese cuisine is not widely celebrated, perhaps because it is neither haute nor avant-garde. But it is delicious, made from the freshest ingredients and well seasoned and spiced. The country’s wine list is equally impressive — most people know about the Minho region’s vinho verde, but there are so many other varieties of Portuguese wine, and many of the wines I tasted rivaled the best vintages of France. A typical night out in Lisbon left me in a state of gastronomic bliss, without the heavy feeling of having eaten or spent too much.

The people, too, are the perfect hosts. They offer superior sights, food, wine and accommodation, but without pretention. My hotel was a great example of this; located in the former manor home of Portuguese writer Eça de Queirós, As Janelas Verdes is now part of the Heritage Lisbon Hotels group, a locally-owned firm that specializes in historic boutique properties. Each of the five Heritage properties features a unique architecture and design; a guest library stocked with books in several languages; 24-hour complimentary coffee, tea, computer terminals and wifi; and abundant breakfasts that include local specialties. The welcome at As Janelas Verdes was warm and helpful, which reflected my experiences all around Lisbon.

The garden of As Janelas Verdes.

Quite simply, the city has everything that is great about European cities, without the crowds, the high prices and the attitude of some of the other capitals. I only wish that it hadn’t taken me 20 years to realize it.

If you build it, will they come? Beirut's corniche expands slowly as a spring storm rolls in from the Mediterranean. (Click for a larger view).

Fun, frightening, fascinating. Lebanon is all of these things, usually at the same moment. In the midst of your shower in your luxurious Beirut hotel room, the lights go out and suddenly you are bathing in utter darkness. Power outages are a twice-a-day occurrence in the city, and the first time it happens it's a bit of a shock. But then you get used to it, as all Lebanese must do. You just wait for the generator to kick in, or grope your way to the nearest source of light.

Take a drive into the gorgeous Chouf Mountains and you might think you are in California — until you hit a military checkpoint. Leave this green domain of the Druze and drive to Sunni territory on the southern coast: another checkpoint. Head north into Christian lands and you are stopped again.

Your car slows down, a soldier bearing a machine gun leans in to examine your face, gives a nod and away you go — maybe to a chic seafood restaurant in the seaside town of Byblos, or perhaps to a winery in the Bekaa Valley.

The town of Byblos, believed to be founded in 5000 BC. If its name sounds familiar, it's because the word "Bible" is derived from Byblos, which means "book" in Greek.

In the middle of these unofficial territories is downtown Beirut, an area that stuns with its gorgeously rehabbed buildings and high-end designer stores, which are often just one block away from a bullet-riddled ruin.

Downtown Beirut: remnants of war.

Downtown Beirut: rehabbed.

Walk another block and you stumble upon an overgrown plot of land littered with Roman ruins.

Yes, the Romans were here.

The Greeks, Phoenicians, Romans, Byzantines, Ottomans and French have all conquered Lebanon at some point in history. And no wonder: the place, if you can forget the long civil war (1975-1990), the 2005 assassination of Prime Minister Rafic Hariri, the 2006 war with Israel and continuing regional and national tensions, is still paradise. Mount Lebanon looms majestically over Beirut, the coastal waters are the most beguiling shade of blue, the weather is great even in winter and olives, pomegranates, grapes and dates grow abundantly.

A stop for petrol and artichokes.Snow-capped Mount Lebanon serves as Beirut's backdrop.

The food in Lebanon is also fantastic; it is a country worth visiting just to eat. And the Lebanese way of dining — with family or friends over mezzes (small plates) and lively conversation — is relaxed and convivial.

Mouth-watering moutabal (or baba ghanoush) with a drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkling of pomegranate seeds.

Everything I ate and drank during my stay was excellent. I am still dreaming of the traditional Lebanese breakfasts of warm pita with sesame and z'aatar (thyme); outrageously creamy labneh, a sort of yogurt-cream cheese hybrid; fresh-squeezed juices; and local honey. I am also dreaming of a savory Armenian dish made with lamb and cherries and of the many (too many!) desserts that I consumed. My favorite was one made by a friend — an ice cream parfait of rosewater ice cream topped with puffs of Lebanese cotton candy, pistachios and a drizzle of honey.

Ziad's rosewater ice cream: Looks like the Lorax, tastes like heaven.

I support Anthony Bourdain's theory that people in the Middle East consume sweets in place of alcohol. The dessert buffet at one restaurant (at the gorgeous Mir Amin Palace Hotel) was so vast and enticing, I felt as though as I were 10 years old again. And, like a 10-year-old, I had to sample as many as I could. Although I did eventually have to give up for fear of a blood-sugar meltdown, I never tired of the various combinations of pistachios, almonds, rose, orange blossom and honey. For those who do drink, the wines of Lebanon are a pleasant surprise. I stuck to the whites of the Bekaa Valley and never had a glass that was not delicious.

Like Lebanon's gastronomy, the country's architecture continues to inspire long after one returns home. A trip to the Beiteddine Palace overlooking the Chouf Range wore out the battery in my camera, although as we approached the palace, which was built in the early 19th-century by Emir Bechir El Chehabi II, I thought that I might not need it at all. The complex's exterior is rather severe and, as there were few other visitors, it had a slightly desolate air about it.

Beiteddine Palace, deserted on a Saturday in March.

But then we went inside. Who knew that such beauty hid behind the plain walls? Marble mosaics, wood carved into swirling calligraphy, gold-leafed arches — it's all there, the Middle Eastern palace of everyone's fantasies, and yet the place receives few visitors.

Ceilings and arches in Beiteddine Palace.A fountain in Beiteddine's warren of historic hammams.

Ladies in waiting: the harem's quarters.

After leaving Beiteddine and winding our way down the Chouf (passing an impromptu demonstration by Lebanon's Kurdish community — and another military checkpoint), we spent some time wandering around the restored souk (market) of Saïda. Nothing about the side streets leading to the hidden souk even hints at the architectural glory inside. The souk is a labyrinth of sand-blasted stone and vaulted arches and home to mosques, a lovely soap museum, a hidden Greek Orthodox chapel and many shops selling everything from handmade soap to pastries to home furnishings.

An entrance to Saïda's historic souk.

All of us, even my local friends, loaded up on terrific-smelling soaps, and I bought a decorative platter that I am still smitten over:

That platter looks pretty good in Paris, hmm?

Back in Beirut, we indulged in yet another decadent meal at Indigo at the hotel Le Gray, which has a jaw-dropping view of the city and Mohammad Al-Amin Mosque. Another outstanding — and panoramic — view is found from the rooftop of the Four Seasons, where the city's elite party in warm weather.

Getting ready for the summer crowds: the rooftop of the Four Seasons Beirut.

Such posh surroundings almost make one forget the country's precarious political situation — almost. You still have to pass though a security check to get into Le Gray, which is just across from Martyrs Square, and on my way to the airport the driver sped strategically through Hezbollah territory. Yet as we whizzed past a billboard promoting the leadership of Hassan Nasrallah, I found myself thinking mostly of sunny skies and rosewater ice cream.